A Hug

I saw a neighbor last week. Walking her little boy in a stroller. He’s the right age to be able to voice his discomfort but still unable to quite express it as well as he wishes to.

They were on their way in and he was out of the stroller when I was on my way to the store. I stopped and spoke to the mom, because I like both she and her husband, although I think it matters none at all; I don’t matter to many, and I do prefer it that way. Sure, it gets lonely. But that’s fine because that is, at least, peaceful. But I spoke. Asked how things had been with the family. Said hello to the boy, whose name I obviously have no business using. He gave me a hug.

There’s a time on a rare day, when someone gets to experience something unexpected and pure, something one shall never forget. That was such a moment. I thanked him and told Mom that my heart was moved. Not wishing to cause undue worry by lingering, I bade them goodbye and moved on.

Sometimes it occurs to me despite being in the throes of depression and hopelessness that all hope need not nor ever should be abandoned until that time when one’s last breath draws too close to avoid. Our hope rests in the souls of the little ones. I perhaps should have told Mom to be more careful in teaching her son about people he doesn’t know, but I’ll trust that by now she has done so. It’s simply not that kind of world, nor was it ever, when the innocent ones could be let out of sight.

I am grateful for the hug. So seldom does one like myself ever get a gesture of simple, innocent friendship and trust, that it was unforgettable.

For a time, I did not cry. It takes so much effort to shop that after I return home, I am depleted in every way possible. I usually eat and then fall asleep. But that afternoon, I thought back to the hug. I cried.

Can children be that powerful and not even be aware of it?

To an extent, yes. But they grow up at different rates and with various influences guiding and shaping them.

Often they surprise others with a keen understanding and ability to express it, and many were the times they changed, as I know in my heart, history from what it may have been to what it is now.

We should not underestimate them. But more importantly, we should never hurt them, nor spare any effort to save them from harm. We should, all of humanity, be ashamed of the terrible harm we’ve caused. Refugees across the world suffer while seeking freedom from harm. And racism, religious bigotry, and pure evil stand in the way. There, wherever it happens, the voices of the young are not to be heard. There is only the silent pain or the sobbing. How will we account for our terrorist actions against them?

Occasionally when one speaks to us, to our collective conscience, their words carry considerable weight.

I’ve read many articles like this. Who can forget “Yes, Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus”?

It gets brought out every Christmas season like the old multicolored strings of lights handed down to us from parents who bought them for a dollar back in 1958. Not to mention that most unforgivable invention, the horrifying Elf on the shelf.

The hearts of the little ones need to have good things to feel. Their minds give them voice to touch our own hearts, to call our own minds to aspire to better things. To have hope in them, in the future. What a shame more of us never answer that call.